Everything you always wanted to know
by Tristana
Summary: ... about Animamundi, but were afraid to ask. Here is my take on some -vital- questions you might have asked yourselves, answered by the Animamundi cast. Warning: CRACK!
1. Why did Lucifer left?

Title: Animamundi's most important questions

Author: Slave of Master Pimy - Me

Summary: Have you ever felt like you didn't know something essential of Animamundi? Here, you will find answers.

Warning: Total crack! I don't know if it qualifies as OOCness because Meffie sounds pretty 'normal' to me. Meffie, and not Peffie, as I once said... Neh Master? I am not responsible for the crack, this is the characters' fault if they are crack inducing... Oh, and I am always high on something (sugar, coffee, tea or chocolate chips cookies) when writing.

Hope you'll enjoy your reading.^^

Note: Thanks to Master Pimy who helps me to find questions to answer. If anyone has any question, please, feel free to ask.

* * *

**First question: Why did Lucifer quit Hell to possess a Zaberisk?**

Deep into Hell's coldest pits – because yes, Hell can be cold, though it's more incidental than anything else – silence reigned like an ancient king who would tolerate no disturbance. But what when the disturbance is cause by the supposed King of Hell?

"MEPHISTO!!!!!!!!!!" The name rang like thunder, breeching the icy stone of the cavern, making the whole Cocytus shake under its wrath. It was not unusual for Hell's 'inhabitants' to hear something so terrible. In fact, it became quite normal ever since Mephistopheles had been promoted to Lucifer's household. In the mansion, it was total wreckage: no furniture was amiss but the tension was evident.

"Didst thou called me Master?" Said Mephisto, absolutely nonplussed at Lucifer's outburst – true, he was used to it. Anyone in his right mind would have fled centuries ago but again, Mephisto was NOT someone you can label as sane without being told that it's an oxymoron. Or a moron… Depends on how you look at it. So, to sum up the situation:

-Mephistopheles stood still before Lucifer

-Lucifer was fuming – acting thus like a perfect Smaug-cosplay

- Mephistopheles had – again – managed to get his master in a compromising position

- Mephistopheles looked totally unfazed

- Lucifer really looked like he was going to burn him to ashes – in the best of cases

In short: Mephisto ought to have started running for his life right when Lucifer had cracked an eye open – some 20 seconds prior.

BUT, being the oversized bat he would later on be labelled as, Mephisto seemed to have less than a bat's brain and thus, didn't move an inch away, stuck as he was, in a rather meticulous observation of Lucifer's naked form. Which earned him a pretty mean blow on the head from Lucifer who said:

"Did I? I don't remember why though…" After a second, he added: "Oh, yes. Me screaming your name was definitely not – despite what you might want to think it was – a mere enraptured cry at your… ministration, but a simple warning for you to GET OUT before I decide to chop your wings and horns off, right before roasting you like some sinner. And as you seemed determined to see for yourself what I meant by 'your cruel demise' last day, I would feel absolutely terrible not obliging." The tone was cold, almost as cold as Cocytus' waters.

"You shouldn't be too hard on him, dear husband. Merely was Mephisto wishing to provide you the comfort I cannot give you anymore." Intervened Lilith. Lucifer cast her a sceptical glance, as if pondering if she was on his side or not, before reminding himself that Lilith never sided with anyone but herself. And truth be told, she seemed to enjoy the scene immensely.

"My Queen…" Said Mephistopheles, bowing before her.

"Now, Mephisto… Do you seriously think I would let you get away with it?" Asked Lucifer with a steely edge in his voice that spoke of hellish torment to come for the demon, should his answer be considered as unsatisfying.

Mephistopheles was – for once – wise enough not to answer and therefore, just sat here while listening to Lucifer. Said Prince of Hell, upon witnessing no reaction whatsoever from his 'lieutenant', decided that now was the time to pull his trump card, namely, the possibility for him to abandon his body here and let his own soul wander and plague some human.

"As you both seem unaffected by my current state of stress and repressed anger, I'm considering going to the human world." This elicited a horrified gasp from Mephistopheles, who almost glomped the Higher Demon in his disbelief.

"Going… to the human world? Lucifer-sama, I am afraid I do not understand thy reasoning."

"It is quite simple, actually. I will abandon the both of you and go to 'have fun' in the human world, at men's expense, that goes without saying."

"You wouldn't, would you?" Asked Lilith in a worried tone. "What if you stay here because your host dies an untimely death? Only a pact with another demon such a Mephistopheles would bring you back, and even so, the person you would be possessing would have to agree to his…"

"Term of service." Provided Mephisto none too happily.

Lucifer was not pleased in the slightest with his subordinate's answer and sighed: "Alright… Now, should you try and molest my host, just think of all the torments you will have to endure… And quit smirking!" Unable to resist, he whacked Mephisto on the head, careful not to pin his hand on his horns.

"I was not smirking, thou art mistaken." Said Mephistopheles, rubbing his aching skull.

"And now you try to tell me that I am blind? Don't you think you are pushing the matters a bit too far?"

Upon seeing that both Lilith and Mephistopheles have fallen silent, Lucifer groaned. These two idiots really should learn not to annoy him! Between Lilith who has fun driving every one mad and Mephisto who has the – sad – habit, of hitting on him every second, he was getting nut!

His mind was set… He was going away from Hell and all this smoke, fires, screams and insane demons… Off to the human world – it possibly wouldn't be worst than suffering their stupidity. Storming out of his mansion, he dashed through Hell in a very un-royal fashion, absolutely careless that he was going to the gate half-naked. He knew his body will be destroyed when he'll set a foot outside but there will always be a way for him to regain it, anyway.

He heard hurried steps behind him – Mephistopheles sure was persistent. "Master, please, don't go. I promise never to act like this ever again."

"Ever again is an awfully long period of time. Don't resent me but I don't think you'll be able to stay away from my bedchamber for more than two days at most." And with this, Lucifer stepped out of the gate, leaving behind him a distressed Mephisto who could only but mourn the loss of his most perfect and gorgeous Master… No more spying Lucifer when having a shower. Mephisto let out a shivering moan. He would never survive, he had to get Lucifer back… But first, he had to know who will be harbouring his soul.

Lucifer, unaware of his underling's schemes went to find a decent host for his soul. He knew he would lost all his memories at once and thus, had to find someone who would be able to contact Mephisto someday – and find a way to give him his body back. He thus settled his choice on a young alchemist of the Zaberisk family. Smiling inwardly, Lucifer went to settle in the deepest core of this man, to wait in slumber for the day he would be awoken. But until then, he would sleep and catch up for all those sleepless nights Mephisto had been responsible of.

Little did he know that in Hell, Mephisto was playing the evil mastermind part in starting to follow his host's life with great attention, his mind set on only one goal: getting Lucifer's back – mind and body, preferably.

* * *

So, are you guys still alive? Yeah, right. I cracked. Though I daresay that even though I took a few... liberties... with the plotline, it seems like something Lucifer would do.

I know that he doesn't hate Meffie though...

Next question - courtesy of Master: **What with the nail polish?** This would be answered by Dash and Ruth.


	2. Nail Polish

Behind the stage series.

Take two: What with the nail polish ?

Anyone ever wondered why do these guys have nail polish? Here are a few hints…

* * *

_Somewhere in the dungeon of a certain mansion of a certain Count:_

"Stop right now! You're messing it up…" Ruthberg sighed heavily upon seeing his comrade struggle with a small bottle. "Really, I would never understand how come you need a job so often."

"Well…" The red-head turned to Ruthberg, grinning mischievously. "I bet you wouldn't. To understand, you'd have to carry corpses all day long. Not only would it ruin your perfect nails but your perfect complexion as well. And the Count wouldn't be pleased."

"Don't talk about the Count like that!" Ruthberg was fuming. He was tired of Dashwood's innuendos. Not that he actually had a choice - the Count was the one telling them what to do. Still, having Dashwood reminding him of this state of things really made his blood boil.

Even so, he didn't have the heart to let Dashwood struggle on his own.

"Here, let me do it." He took the bottle and opened it. "Put your hand flat on the table." A pause. "Not my thigh, the _table_."

"Sorry, my hand slipped." Dashwood loved to tease Ruth, especially when not obliging from the start or driving him nut. He wasn't doing it out of anger at Ruth being the Count's favourite. He didn't care for honour but to him, picturing the Count getting in such a beauty's pants was enough to drive him crazy. Not that he could tell Ruth something like that, this wouldn't do at all – working with corpses doesn't mean that you shouldn't value your life. He valued his very much.

Taking the brush, Ruth started to paint Dash's nails carefully. Despite what he said, he didn't really mind to do it. It was – basically – the only form of contact he allowed himself to have with his "friend". One thing he disliked most about Dashwood was the fact that he never seemed too inclined to shut his trap. And he was – again – proved right when Dashwood asked:

"Maybe it's a stupid question, but why do you think we have to wear nail polish? Thinking of it, it's pretty stupid."

Dashwood was not as stupid as it seemed. Men sported polish but it was discreet, most of the time. Through time, he had started to wonder why they had to wear something so dark and obvious.

"My guess would be that, in your case, as you deal with corpses and the like, it'd be fitting. No one would see just how dirty they can be." He smirked, waiting for Dash's reply – he didn't have to wait for long though.

"Supposing you are right… What about you? What could you be doing that would dirty your hands so much that you need black polish?" Dashwood couldn't suppress a smirk at Ruth turning a pretty tomato-red. He had nailed his companion and he was pretty sure that Ruthberg wouldn't come and speak about dirty nails in a while.

Ruthberg finished Dashwood's right hand and had the time to finish the other before replying. He didn't know what to say – he knew that he was trapped and that Dashwood had proven to be smarter – for once. He was sneaky and Ruthberg wondered if anyone but the Count could dwarf Dashwood, making him look helpless.

"Don't you think there is a kind of gradation?"

"Why do you ask me?"

"Aside from the obvious answer, which would be because you are here and that I won't bother to channel a cat's spirit to get an answer?" Ruthberg cast an icy glance at Dash who just shrugged. He was used to the younger man's Ice Queen attitude.

"There had to be one… Though, if according to your reasoning, the Count should have blacker than black nails." It was uncommon for Dashwood to speak so freely but he knew that, even he didn't approve, Ruth would never say anything to the Count.

"Agathion! This is…" Uncalled for? While it was totally called for on some level? Dropping the retort he was about to throw back at Dashwood, Ruth sighed. "I think it's because it looks like blood. And that black, being a non-colour, can be viewed as akin to shadows."

"You mean, he is the blood and we are the shadows? And what next? Those who have golden nails are sun gods, perhaps?"

"This is not a laughing matter!"

"Are you telling me that nails' colour is serious?" Dashwood's smirk widened. "Oh, I got it! The Count is the reincarnation of Morticia Addams!" He had gotten up and watched Jan with an air of smug triumph about him that was almost scary. A happy Dashwood meant troubles.

"What!?" Came the strangled reply. Are you out of your mind?" Ruthberg was absolutely appalled at Daswhood's words.

"Well, he bathes in blood to stay young – which is precisely why you poison people and why I carry corpses. I thought of Morticia Addams but it was going too far."

"Hearing you, he'd be a demon lord and we would be his shadows…"

"Great news!" Dashwood let out a delighted sigh.

"Why would it be 'good news'?" Ruth was at a loss… Dashwood was losing it!

"If we are the Count's shadows… We are supposed to get closer."

"What?!" Ruth's cheeks flared a deep red as Dash went on.

"Shadows blend together… Black against black, in a sense." Dash leaned back on his chair, knowing that Ruth was close to shout.

"Stop babbling such nonsense, you're forgetting your place."

"Why do you get so upset? I'm not suicidal enough to ask you to kiss me – or anything, for that matter."

"Well, should you ask, I'll be glad to oblige. Maybe would it shut you up for a while…" Ruthberg left in a white whirl, leaving Dashwood looking smugly at the small black bottle. Really, this boy was so fun to tease.

* * *

Here is another work for Master Pimy - really, without her, I would never have gotten to ask myself something this cracky... Crackiness will follow - again, if you have any idea or comment, please, feel free to send me a review or a PM.

Soon - though I don't know when - will come: the Ouija Board, the peeping-Owl - I called him that because of the pics... No, Count, I said 'O.W.L.!!!! Are you so old that you can't hear right??


	3. Dash and the hairdye of doom

**Question 3: What with Dashwood's hairdye?**

Or: Why one should never let alchemists play with hairdyes and why would Dash need a job at the... hairdresser.

Author: Master's Slave

Disclaimer: Don't own the guys - wish I would though...

Warning: To read with a perverted mind is even better. If you see innuendos everywhere, it's normal. This story is AU. Here, everyone has a second chance after the Paradise ending, though they still remember what happened before. Georik, being blind (mentally speaking) never noticed Dash but apparently, it might owk out. bruno is not in love with Dashwood, he's just your typically, stereotypical, fop of a hairdresser. And I love him. (Remember the part with the Homonculus? Dare to tell me this doesn't scream 'hairdresser' to you...)

Total crack, as always, but I had fun writing it.

* * *

Today was a brand new day - he never felt so alive! Perhaps was it the fact of living in an AU specially created for him and the others, without some stupid master to claim his butt - and blood - at random... because you see... Count Sandwich must have had Alzheimer: he tended to forget that he was human and could not afford losing so much blood AND getting screwed several times a day without having some consequences on his body… exhaustion and anemia, just to name the worst ones.

Oh well, he did not care anymore. Today, he has an appointment with his saviour… And even though he was slightly afraid of the price he would have to pay, anyone who saw him could tell that he greatly needed it. Indeed, no matter how alive he felt with sun shining and birds chirping, fear of his own personal purgatory was always close by. In fact, he had to see his special someone this evening and he couldn't go like this. So, he was not bouncing as much as he was running.

He finally arrived in front of his current haven… As he approached the door, he noticed the change of sign – apparently, the previous "2 in 1! Get one job listed below and another one will be offered!" have been removed. Oh well… maybe was it the neighbouring flower seller who got all upset and just went to the Moral Brigade to signal some kind of abuse… with the legislation, that is. Now, a plainer "Full Service is provided non stop by the most talented scissor-handlers in town" well… so much for plainness but somehow, he KNEW that it was just a way to annoy all those who complained.

He pushed the door of the "Archangel's Locks" to nearly drown in perfumes, joyous laughter and heels gliding on the ground. He spotted his "saviour" – how could he miss him? Tall, his silvery hair framing his face with wispy strands, finely cut face… and the telltale "teapot posture" as he was presenting his customer with a mirror. "You are perfect, my darling! Your angelic face is so magnificently brought up that I would bet my favourite hairclip that all women in town would hate you from now on."

"My my, flattering as ever I see, Bruno…" He could not help himself, watching the man fuss over the girl's hair like some kind of bird on acid – not that he knew where he hell it came from. Oh well, surely it was Ruthberg and his tendency to talk to souls of the deceased when he has a minute free… much like some kind of… messaging system?

At this, the man spun on his heels – he must have practiced the move for ages in front of his mirror! No one can spin around like this with his coat swirling like this! Without knowing it, a shout – some would say a squealing noise - piercing his ears.

", you came, my darling boy! Oh my god, I'm so glad to see you!" Instantly, a struggling Dashwood was caught in a vice-like embrace by some totally hyper-hairdresser. "Now, tell me, sweetheart, what brings you here? You sounded so desperate on the phone, I barely could stand it." Dashwood didn't dare to move, waiting for Bruno to see why by himself. There was no way he would accelerate his own death…

And suddenly… IT happened. He felt like the world would explode and he would die altogether… He felt Bruno push him away, grabbing him by the wrist so he wouldn't fall altogether… Before his ears started bleeding again.

"FRANCIS DASHWOOD!!!" This was bad – Bruno normally kept it down – he never yelled at anyone. Cracking an eye open, he saw the most disturbing thing ever. Bruno was actually close to tears… Worse. "What happened to you? Who destroyed your oh-so beautiful crimson curls? Who dared to maim such perfection, my sweet?"

Overwhelmed, Dashwood could only stagger backward, holding his painful ribs. There, when it was not the Count and his sick concept of fun, it was Bruno and his affection. Did the whole world want him dead? Should his potential lover turn him down, he was finished – and would end up chatting with Ruth on the Ouija. Not that it was this terrible – somehow, he had a hunch it could get pretty funny. Not that he was this eager to try.

"Errr… it's a long story…" He wasn't sure if he should tell Bruno right away… after all, the guy knew how to use scissors in more way that one and Dashwood also knew that razors slept somewhere in a drawer. And he wasn't sure he wanted to have his name with headlines like: "A young man was killed, falling victim to a hairdresser scissormania."

"Don't worry about it, sweetheart…" With that, Bruno gave the incriminated locks a disgusted look. "Just sit there, make yourself comfortable – I'll grab you a drink and you'll tell me everything, alright? Will take me a while to clean up this… mess." With that, he was gone in a flourish, letting the now breathless and panicking Dash sit down in the comfy armchair, as an assistant helped him in one of those capes. Pink capes. The sight made him wrinkle his nose as it reminded him of something he would rather forget.

Lost in thoughts, it took him a while to notice the plate dancing in front of his eyes with a king-sized cookie and a super tall mug of cappuccino. Dashwood reckoned that he was one of the few getting such goodies but knowing the boss's bf helped. Though he was pretty intent on killing said bf right now. He took the mug gratefully and had a sip. It was pretty sweet, though not that much. Somehow, he had a sweet tooth – especially caffeinated drinks and chocolate.

"Now now, lie down and let me handle everything." The sink's porcelain was cold on his neck but he did not complain. Hot water quickly sprayed on his scalp as careful hands took care of him. He knew it all along: he should never have entrusted his hair to anyone but Bruno. He sighed in contentment when long, agile fingers massaged his scalp and hair with some sweet scented shampoo. He might not look like it but he truly liked to be pampered. Maybe was it because of years of abuse in his previous life?

"Don't you dare and pull a Sleeping Beauty trick on me, Francis. You have your tale to tell."

"But… It feels too good… can't I just have a nap? Please?" That request got him a slight whack on the head courtesy of a certain hairdresser, who obviously hated to be ignored.

"And why should I let you? After all, I have to fix your hair…"

"Aye, because you're so talented. Please?"

"If you ask again, I won't help you. And you'll have to walk around like this – or try and dye your hair the darkest black, praying that it would not end up some kind of dirty pink."

"Must you say that word?"

"Which?"

"Pink!"

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, your hair is currently P.I.N.K." if Dashwood did not know the man, he would actually remind him that it was NO laughing matter. But he kept his mouth shut, since the flippant hairdresser would have none of it. "And not a pretty pink at this. I mean, look at this!" he nearly shoved a mirror in Dashwood's face so the man was painfully reminded of the fact that, indeed, his hair was pink… A horrible bubblegum pink that reminded him of a girl in some show Lilith once ranted about.

"Francis… If you had a milk-white skin, I suppose it would be less blatant. But considering your skin tone, I would never have gotten anywhere close to such a shade. And what were you thing, huh? Forsaking me for ready-made junk!?" With that, Bruno stopped rubbing Dashwood's skull, standing next to him in all his theatrical glory, a hand dramatically drawn to his heart as the other was placed on his friend's shoulder, eyes glinting with – fake – tears.

"Well… WHAT? You actually think I wanted to get pink hair?"

"You wanted fuchsia instead?" at this, a fine, silvery eyebrow shot up while golden eyes widened even more in disbelief. Dashwood was desperate. Either Bruno was totally off his rocker – heels – or he was on a high… Yeah, that's it! Hair products' vapour poisoned his brain and killed it!

"I wanted it red!" Daswhood wanted to get up and shake some sense into the man but Bruno was strong and he suddenly found himself with his head back in the sink with his hair being rinsed carefully.

"My my… Here you go, I will wait for your hair to dry up for the darkening product to work. And then, new rinse and dye – I hope you have nothing to do this afternoon because I'm not letting you out of my salon before your hair are back to normal. And while I'm at it, I might as well cut your hair. Since the dye is like a repair of sort, I won't charge you."

At this, Dashwood truly got milk-white complexion, though a bit on the yellowish side. When Bruno is THIS compliant, it means Doom will fall on his head. Heavily. "What's the trick today? No- Don't tell me… This product you just used is a brand new one you haven't tested yet and thought you might use me as a guinea pig."

Bruno looked almost sheepish – well, to anyone who didn't know him, he certainly looked like a kid caught with the hand in the cookie jar. But to anyone else, including Dashwood, the mischievous glint in his eyes and Cheshire smile were blatant signs of actual delight. And a Bruno pleased with himself was WORSE than Doom. It was Doom coming to you with a badass hammer! Well… knowing Bruno, said hammer would be inflatable, glittery… and pink. Possibly with a "Drag is the drug" sticker on its handle. At this, Dashwood felt like breaking a cold sweat. There was no way to get that thought out of his head now.

"Oh well… want to get your crimson shade back, yes or no? I heard you had some important event this evening… Wouldn't it be a shame if you have to cancel it just because you showed such – uncalled for – defiance regarding my skills?" he was smirking. That damned hairdresser was actually showering him with smugness and there was nothing he could do but accept it. He was right – Dashwood waited for so long that there was no turning back. Nothing would make him stray from his goal now – even if the path he now treaded was even more dangerous than a field crammed with landmines.

"You won." _As always, and Devil's Horns, that's annoying me to Hell and back._

"Of course, I do. So now, on with your rinse. Back to the sink." With a flourish, Bruno motioned Dashwood back to his place and rinsed his hair with deliciously tepid water. Apparently, he knew that these dye problems occurred not too long ago and that his scalp was still kind of raw.

Minutes passed and finally, the dye was applied. Dashwood had no idea as to how he did it, but he was grateful that the dyeing product actually felt cool – it was quite soothing. But Bruno was not ready to let him of the hook just yet.

"So… How did you get your hair in such a terrifying shape?"

"Thanks for the terrifying, I appreciate it."

"I aim to please." Bruno said it with a mock-bow and looked at him in the eyes, thus implying that Dashwood had better spit it out and now. At first, he had found the other man's eyes unnerving in their duality – as different as the man has different aspects to his personality. Though acting like the queerest hairdresser in town – which he was, most of the time, Bruno could be scarily cold and sarcastic at times. There was something about this man that would most certainly send Dashwood running for cover but he always chose to pay no heed.

Knowing that there was no way out of this one, Dashwood let out a sigh before starting.

"Remember when you gave me the name of this brand so I could do my roots without needing to come here every month?"

"Of course I do. It's not their product, was it? If it's their fault, I swear, they will have to face the dire consequences of such unforgivable stupidity." Before Bruno could go on a rampage, Dashwood intervened again.

"No, it was not defective. As things were, it was a bit too effective."

"What do you mean?" he had the full attention of the hairdresser by now, not that it actually helped his case.

"Ruthberg have the same one, some kind of bleach if I recall correctly… And it was sitting next to mine in the bathroom next to my own packet."

"Don't tell me that…" Bruno's eyes were as wide as saucers. He had to be joking! Wasn't he? His suspicions found themselves be confirmed when Dashwood shut his mouth ostensibly. "Francis?"

"I'm not going to tell you, you just told me not to."

"Well, you might as well say it aloud…" The hairdresser started to remove the aluminium film from the now dyed strands as he sighed. "So?"

"I used it… and when I saw that I messed up, it was too late." Dashwood sounded like a kid being scolded. Which was pretty much the case. But Bruno knew that the man was keeping silent on purpose.

"I see that you messed up… Still, this doesn't explain why you ended up with those horrible bubblegum strands. You tried to fix by yourself?" No more playing this time, Dashwood noticed the deadly growl in his voice and he suddenly remembered why he wanted to avoid having to see Bruno right after his failed experiment.

"Aye. Here's the paper of the thing." He took it from his pocket as Bruno removed the last bit of film from his hair. Directing the now-dark haired man to the sink – again – Bruno looked at the notice. And Dashwood was certain he was not going to like it, considering just how close to his hairline the eyebrows of the hairdresser were getting. He was doomed.

"Now now, Francis, we both know you couldn't have gotten your pretty hands on that kind of product…" His voice was low, with a clearly dangerous edge to it and true, Dashwood felt like the Devil himself was staring at him. Damn, even Pope Gamigin could NOT be this scary – because Gamigin never acted nice anyway, so it was more like him acting normally.

"Errrrr…" Dashwood was starting to worry. Bruno kept ominously silent for the rest of the washing and a silent hairdresser was never a good sign. Never ever. When it came to cut his hair, the young man felt like a deer caught in the headlight. He could not run away but honestly, he never saw Bruno this pissed off before. First stroke of the scissors – and with it, the question. Which was not a real question since Dashwood would bet his butt that Bruno knew the answer.

"Who?" And he was not going to ask twice – Bruno rarely ask twice for the same thing and Dashwood knew he had pushed his luck earlier.

"It's… Paracelsus." The name came out, less than a murmur and yet, it rang in the salon like thunder. He was dead and he just signed Paracelsus death warrant. He closed his eyes, trying to fight the vision of Bruno slashing his throat open with his scissors. Instead, another cutting noise and one of his bangs found itself shortened in front of his eyes.

"No need to look this frightened my dear… I never killed anyone in this salon – those tiles are terrible to wash you see." Apparently, Bruno's wrath was not directed toward Dashwood. Though it was difficult to say if it was good or bad. "Now now. I'm not that angry at you – though the fact that you didn't tell me hurt my pride as a _coiffeur_. But… I'm totally, absolutely, utterly upset at this nitwit for having given you that thing." His voice had risen and lowered, hitting the shrilling point at 'nitwit' and 'thing'. Indeed, Bruno looked upset, waving his scissors in the air as if he was going to stab the ceiling.

"Bruno?" Dashwood was starting to really worry.

"Sorry, Sweet, I did not mean to yell at you." With that, he went on cutting caressingly Dashwood's hair. One would almost say 'lovingly', especially when he started to work on the strands at the back of the young man's neck and temples, lightly brushing his skin when brushing his hair so it would be easier to cut. Anyone who did not know Bruno would have thought the man was flirting and at first, Dashwood himself was a tad bit reluctant. But afterward, he got convinced that it was just Bruno's way of being and that there was nothing to worry about. Well, Dashwood was still worried, but for something else entirely: he wondered what would befall Paracelsus. He was at fault too, though. But right now, he just wanted to save his own neck. Bruno can be a pretty deadly individual and Dashwood actually wanted to live.

"Now now, Francis dearest…" The tone was cheerful again and Dashwood could hear the smile playing on the man's lips. "Aside from this dye catastrophe… What brings you here?"

"You?" It was a question, and Dashwood smiled himself at the almost delighted squeal coming from the hairdresser. Looking in the mirror, he swore he actually saw Bruno dancing on the spot, coat waving like a dress, hands brought to his face in a girly fashion.

"Awwww, Francis, you naughty boy, this is not something you should say. Now now, I'm all embarrassed." Yet, despite what he said, a mischievous glint shone in his eyes and if he did not know better, Dashwood would have said that he did so because he just wanted to play the foppy hairdresser. Not that he actually minded. Bruno was like a ray of sunshine, despite his previous outburst and Dashwood was genuinely happy to talk to him. It was still funny to see how quickly he can become as fuzzy as a pushy – or as sharp as a razor.

As Dashwood felt like shaking his head at the other man's antics, said man turned serious and smiled sweetly at him in the mirror. "So… Who is it? Our dark, long-haired beauty?" Now, it was Dashwood's turn to feel embarrassed. If Bruno knew, it only meant that half the town – at the very least – knew as well. "Now now, don't be shy, I promise I never said anything to anyone."

"How?"

"Is it not obvious? You have been enthralled by this man ever since you saw him, if I remember correctly. And you tried to protect him at the cost of your own life, of course I know how you feel."

"And how do you know him, now?"

"Aside from the fact that he nearly killed me? Let's say that this man has to have the finest hair in all Kamazene."

"Don't tell me that…"

"I am his hairdresser? I would not dare." Seeing the death glare Dashwood sent his way, Bruno laughed good-naturedly. "Oops?"

"Like you would mean it…"

"I do… now, look straight ahead, I'm going to blow you." Bruno snickered – in a very unladylike fashion – as he pulled out the dreaded blow-dryer. Dreaded because it always gave the hairdresser plenty of strange ideas, which he would almost always wax in his victims hair. A bit like 'Oh my god, those tousled strands are just amazing. We definitely have to keep them!' Dashwood just prayed that this time, the hairdresser would not play with wax. As if on cue, the mad hairdresser told him not to worry, "I would not want to ruin your hair. Believe me, they would be softer than silky smooth." Dashwood, having learned his lesson the first time, did not ask what he meant by this.

A few minutes later, Bruno shut the devilish device off and brushed a few stray strands in place. Deciding against putting anything in the young man's hair, he helped him out of the cloak of doom. "Now now, look at yourself. You truly have perfect hair for this… this kind of dye would not have worked on anyone." Motioning Dashwood so he would face the mirror, Bruno sighed. "You would not know, sweet, but women would kill to have hair like yours – or to have you." The last part was just a whisper, the hairdresser leaning over Dashwood while hugging him loosely. "My god, your hair smells so wonderful… I can tell, this night is yours already." He smiled at his friend, leaving him in front of the mirror to marvel at his new hair colour. His face was framed with fine strands of crimson hair, looking as fluid and vivid as blood.

As he went to pay, Bruno swept him away, an arm sneaking around his slender waist. "You don't need to pay. I would have hated to see you forsake such an occasion just because of this. And it was my duty to make up for Paracelsus' stupidity. Believe me when I say that he will be punished." The tone grew colder and colder, down to polar depth, before rising again as Bruno cheerfully ushered him off.

When he went to the door, the hairdresser called after him. "Francis, sweet?" As he stared at him in wonder, the man went on. "Please, try and keep that delicious sway when you walk, but be careful of ill-mannered jerks, would you?" The hairdresser had this look of deep concern on his face and the young man knew this concern was genuine. They both knew what he went through, though not in details and thus, Bruno always tried to keep and eye on him.

Dashwood smiled at this, almost laughing out loud at the hairdresser's puppy dog eyes and promised him that he would be careful. And with a last, almost tearful farewell, he went off, a spring in his step. He felt much lighter now – and he was overjoyed. Tonight, he will see Georik, despite all the obstacles that were put in his way, and he would make sure to enjoy it to the fullest.

It was not until he arrived in front of his home's door that he thought of Paracelsus. The alchemist was in dire troubles. Perhaps would he get to chat with Ruthberg afterwards, who knows?

And indeed, Bruno was sitting in his salon, waiting for his next client while devising paracelsus' bloody demise. The man will suffer. No one should be allowed to defile such beauty as _his_ sweet Francis' hair. Not even the man he loved. A cold smirk crept on his features for a few seconds, revealing the demon hiding behind the carefree, foppy surface.

Far away from the _Archangel's Locks_, a beautiful, red-haired man sneezed violently. He was in trouble. Even worse than the usual 'trouble' – this meant near death experience.

* * *

Now now... what will happen to Paracelsus? How would he justify himself? And more importantly: will he survive, considering that he's not immortal anymore? Ooooopsies!


	4. No more split ends

Look like we have a running theme of Bruno being... Bruno... I won't tell anything more.

It's pretty shorter than the rest but I do believe it's just fine as it is. Also, it's related to the Hairdye chappie, in a way... let's say this is when Bruno's career kicked off. I am sorry i haven't updated in a long time.

Like my ohter Animamundi fanfic, this bit is dedicated to the awesome **A Libertine So Grim**, that is, Master. Because it was when discussing with her that i suddenly got the idea... Also, i might have some 'Anima Cast needs a therapy' fic... any ideas or chara request? If you have any other question about some Animamundi characters that you may want to see answered here, please, just ask me in a review or by PM. Now, on with the infamous:

* * *

**There shall only be... none!**

Despite a reputation that might send all the Dark Lords from ancient times running for cover, Bruno Glening was by no means who you can call an evil man. Away with the 'rejected kid gone evil' stereotype, this is not what happened. Oh no, the story that is that of Bruno Glening is really different. Or maybe not?

The wails and running feet that could be heard throughout the castle were indeed proof enough of something wicked occurring… and the creepy laughter that arose did not help either. In short, the Knights of the Guard would not risk a single hair out of their quarters. Of course, they should protect the king… but we all know how it worked: how can I save the king if I die first? A very clever question and one still to be answered.

However, should one follow the screams, one would arrive at the royal apartment, precisely, the king's room. Here laid King Hardland XIII, pushing against the window as if he thought that pushing it enough would allow him to break through. He forgot that those window panes were extra solid to prevent just that – someone throwing a monarch by the window. For once, Hardland wished the security system was not so good. The room was dark and the nightly chill surrounded the king like a blueish shroud, eerily reminding him of Eidellune. How appropriate. Fear ran down his spine, making his skin crawl with the knowledge that it will soon be over. He did not want to end like this – this is not how a king is supposed to end. No, a king should end in a radiant moment of wisdom, some would say in a flash, like a shooting star. In that case, more like a shooting start. Footsteps could be heard in the corridor, slow like a cat on the prowl. The carpets muffled the creaking of the wooden floor, like a pillow muffling… dear God, he should not think like this… it was too horrible. His bones felt like ice, freezing his flesh while clammy hands came to his face, trying to hide the inevitable. The steps stopped – right before the door he knew it. He stopped breathing, suddenly scared. That man had the keys… he could enter as he wished and the king could feel the smirk on the other's face.

"Your Majesty…" Oh, that saccharine voice, so despicable. How could someone with such policed manners be such a beast? He knew what this voice meant… no sense in hiding – he knew. But what? What does he know? How could he know?

He could hear it, the clutching of the key, the rasping of the lock – door creaking open. He could see his tall shadow in the frame. Approaching slowly – he could see it. A silent scream escaped the king's parched lips as he saw the tool of the trade. The deadly weapon ready to commit that heinous crime against his person. The sharp sound of the almost surgical device being tested, the silvery glint of the blades. Everything felt like a nightmare. It was a nightmare. He would wake up soon.

"My King… you know it is not nice to try and hide something of such importance from me. I am your most loyal servant after all." Again, the mockery and conceit. He could not believe the sheer attitude of this man. How dare he? The question was not how, just that he simply dared, which is much more daunting.

"Begone you monster! Do not approach me further! I am King!" Panic could be heard in his voice and he saw the smirk on the other's face grow wider. The brilliant shades displayed in his eyes were showing him Hell and there was no way he could escape from it. He could see it… the blades, the smile, the laughter, the aseptic scent of the man's clothes. He was lost. He screamed.

The day after, the terror that shook the palace on its foundation seemed almost forgotten, though everyone seemed to be extra cautious around the king. No one dared to speak in front of him, for fear of their vocal chords forming sounds that did not belong to the circumstances. However, whenever the king was out of earshot, we could hear their heated talk.

"Did you see the King's hair? So smooth and shiny… seems like he go the ends trimmed as well."

"And his pigtails, did you see? I swear, they rival that of Captain Ramphet!"

"True that." And so they went, unaware of the looming figure that spelled impending doom to anyone coming in a radius of 10 meters. To say that Mikhail Ramphet was angry was like saying that St Germant was a tad bit eccentric: a plain understatement. He was beyond rage right now. How dared he? HOW DARED HE?

It was without counting another figure on the other side of the courtyard that walked with a spring in their step. Here went the Royal Physician, Bruno Glening. He looked pretty happy with himself and, as everyone knew in the palace by now, this never bode well for his last guinea-pig. As things stood, Bruno was floating on a pink, fluffy cloud of shampoo-ness, reviving his last evening. Oh, how he remembered it well – and with such fondness he would almost ask himself out if he was just a bit more off his rock of solid soap made in Eidellune. The memory still made him smile in pure bliss… those words…

"_How did you know about it, Bruno?"_

"_Majesty, I thought I made myself clear: as long as I work here, there shall be no split end in my presence." And the scissors cut neatly the incriminated hair at the same pace as some hyperactive cheetah. _

Oh, Gods he was happy. Nevermind the King sulking on his throne, looking like some dessert. Nevermind this sour-faced knight. As long as he will be here, split ends will not stay! Going to his laboratory, he caressed almost sensuously his beloved pair of scissors, relishing in the sharp neatness of their blades.

* * *

The thought of Bruno doing some... unorthodox things to his scissors is also quite appealing... but I might also do something about the Pope... why was Bruno REALLY kicked out of Eidellune?


	5. Gamigin in his pants

Awww, such a long time since I last updated. I am sorry about that, everyone! I have been toying with that idea for a while but got lazy and would not write it.

Thank you to Master **A Libertine so Grim** for her support and seal of approval.

And to **Her Majesty Lady Yumiko**, thank you again for your pm, it helped a lot and I guess I owe you that one theme...

Maybe something will follow about the Count's pants – that arrow bugs me and I want him to have an argument with Lady Gaga... or something... ideas are welcome.

Also, I want to warn you that in that bit, you'll have an OC I 'created' for a potential Anima fanfic. She'll appear in that one story only. I needed someone to go and nags Pope Gamigin about his pants... and no one would volunteered so here you are. I tried to make her closer to the idea I would have of higher ups in Eidellune's hierarchy – kind of bossy, downright sadistic and so on.

And yush, the Pope jumps about anyone because, yes he CAN!

The only think he can't do alone (insert CZJ song in Chicago here) is... you'll see.^^

So here is the question:

**How does Pope Gamigin ever get into his own pants?**

* * *

Certainly, all great rulers have had their own share of dilemmas and inextricable situation. Pope Gamigin was no different, even though he was on many levels. Different, that is. Dilemmas usually went unnoticed, the Pope having a tendency to get rid off of anything contradicting his plans, be it men, necromancers, idiotic councillors – he was a 'tyrant', so yeah... he doesn't exactly need any... - soldiers from other countries thinking they would never rise again under his orders should they get killed... even pieces of furnitures were not safe from Gamigin's wrath – as this unfortunate mirror that ended up out of the window simply because he didn't like what he saw in it.

Strangely enough, his current lover stared at him in disbelief before shaking her head, muttering something under her breath. Luckily enough for her, she was indispensable to him – notably on the field, so he did not rip her to shreds like he normally would have. In fact, there was something she could do that not even the men he had could do... That ability largely overthrew the best job he got in his own life – which he owed to a human, though no one in Eidellune was supposed to know.

Her ability – something that made him stick to the woman was precisely the ability of doing what was undone... Of vainquishing the bane of his existence...

His pants!

Such was the terrible – and dreaded – ordeal the Pope had to undergo everyday. Normal rulers would say paperworks, foppish doctors, chemists with an overgrown imagination... Not him. His own wardrobe was set against him! To be honest, there was no greater curse on Earth than the one imposed to him by script-writers so eager to please fangirls he never saw. That or it was just to counter his awesomeness. To defeat countless nations and armies, to command the last kingdom where sorcery was used daily and to be put in the throes of despair by a pair of miserable leather pants. He had to be doomed... Next time he sees that bratty Captain, he'll definitely get him to try those... If it doesn't turn him into a crying mess, nothing will. Smirking, the Pope momentarily forgot that he was still wandering in his room stark naked. It was not his fault, his general was away and since today was a big battle day, he couldn't afford to put on pants that would even allow him to sit down properly.

The door was thrown open on the tall form of his executioner, her mouth twisted in a snarl. "When will you cease to be a child and do it yourself? At least, put something on!" She looked mightily pissed and if the Pope didn't know she was joking, he might have felt something cold crawling up his spine. It's not like he shivered though. Great Lords of Darkness do NOT shiver. It's not only unmanly, it's also downright girly. And he would not tell her that he wasn't going to wear underwear with those pants. Not to mention that you cannot wear any with those – and that honestly, he hated that feeling. But the Pope was a manly man and therefore settled for an answer that he hoped would shut that she-devil off.

"You command me in my own domain? Or are you just upset because I did not grace your bed last night?" The lazy drawl did not seem to have the right effect for she stomped toward his dresser – could it be that she was really angry?

"Like Hell I am! Though really, I appreciated you leaving me alone – I feel sorry for the poor bloke who had to bear with you – hope that you won't need him today because he might still be applying salve somewhere."

"Are you implying that I'm too rough? That's new, normally no one complaints."

"Perhaps you are too afraid of what I could do to you if you try that stunt? And the others are mere fanboys... Poor kids... Now now... tell me where you hid them?"

"Hid what?"

A snarl – oh yes, she was beyond pissed. Good job here, Gamigin, your lifespan just got cut in half. "Your pants."

"Which ones?" Ooooops, 1 life on 7 remaining – must divert the harpy before it eats his brain. Walking – necromancers don't run – to the wardrobe, he took a pair of black patent leather slacks to hold them before the fury. Which fury was damn smirking to his face just as smugly as she does when she gets to skin an officer. Creepy. This was the most feared 'You are so going to suffer'-smile, the one that sends her underlings running and screaming in fear. Not that he was scared. Maybe a little. But no one can stay stoic in such situations! That woman was scarier when holding his pants than when holding a godforsaken battle axe, for the Devil's sake!

She grabbed the pants with a saccharine smile – or was it a cyanide one? - and approached him slowly. "Now, my good lord, would you be so kind and lie down on your bed so I can service you?"

He actually had to bit his tongue not to say anything that may anger her – he tried, he really did. But it was too tempting. "However much I would love you to... service me... I would rather believe that it would go against the reason of my calling you." He would never state clearly that he needed the help. Truth was, he could do it himself. But it was like using wax: you can do it, but it hurts just so much that you stop in the middle and end up stuck. In that case, being stuck means: both legs in pants, held in the air while wriggling his way inside said pants. Not that the King of Necromancer actually wriggles. He may sexily writhe when in the throes of passion but that's all. He has his pride.

Again, pride was going to be smashed into tiny pieces as he reclined on his bed, waiting for his personal tormentor to accomplish her evil deed. Dignity was not something she usually allows him to keep when in such a situation and even though he knew that he will make up for it later on, he could not help but wonder why in the Devil's name he ever agreed to have her helping him. He just hoped that she would not make it even more difficult which, if the smile she was wearing was proof enough, would definitely not be the case. Still, he had no choice and stayed still as she kneed in front of him. Considering her position and current outfit, he smirked as (un)called for thoughts emerged in his mind. Then, he felt her taking hold of his left leg, lifting it ever so slightly so she could slip it into leather. Those pants were brand new, and he briefly shuddered at the painful prospect of having to wear them the whole day – and since he laughed at his general last time she complained about her own corset, he had a hunch that she will have fun torturing him. Seeing her satisfied expression, his reaction must have not gone unnoticed. She slowly made the leather slide on his skin up to his knee before making a short work in his right leg.

"Now, my dear lord... it's show time."

He could not help himself, swallowing hard and feeling like he would die. If he could die, that is. Which was not proven – and he will never let anyone try and kill him. Not like that. With this, she used both her hands to make the soft and hard material slither on his legs. If only he was not aware of his situation, he knew just as she did that he would be aroused. But here, the slightest arousal would spell death to him and some part of his anatomy. A part he was quite attached to. And she saw this. Faster than it took him to think 'oh shit', she was kneeling above him, her face inches away from his own. "Don't tell me that you are apprehensive, my lord. It's not like it was your first time." Her voice was dripping with honey but her eyes sent chills down his back. She was a demon – which was the main reason why she was here and she did not fear him – another reason why she was here. No one else would even dare and do it – mostly because he'd kill that person. And he tried to kill her at first – made her writhe in agony and nearly broke her ribcage... Before he remembered that he was the one asking.

Little did they know that outside the room, the guard left on duty heard that line. And since he was not aware of the reason that made Jezebel show up at that hour – he knew she sometimes was the Pope's bedfellow but that was it – he could not help but wonder. First time of what? He had a feeling he did not want to know but men were curious. And curiosity often killed the necromancer in the past.

Back to her task, the general made her chief get up, so that she would be able to finish it off. The Pope did not quite appreciated the attention, since he felt like his... privates... may end up being crushed by the evil looking leather. Damn, his pants were laughing at him. Unless it was that woman. She had some devilish laughter that made almost everyone she met uneasy – or queasy. His stomach swallowed his heart and he was getting closer to the edge. She will kill him with that garment of doom. She honestly and totally will. The leather whispered against his legs, now reaching his upper thighs.

"Going commando again? What a naughty boy." Damn her! But she was enjoying it far too much.

"As if you didn't know." He smiled – grinned – at her, in that teasing manner that he reserved for such situations – appeasing the beast before she destroyed his pride.

"Oh but I knew..." Getting up, she had to lift her face to stare at him in the eye. He knew what she was doing, occupying him while her hands grasped the waistband of the torture device. Her nails trailed on his back and buttocks, something he never minded... in other circumstances. She brought her lips close to his before saying: "I will be gentle, my lord. Please, relax." It was the only warning he was allowed before she yanked the leather pants up past his behind and to his hips.

The scream that rang through the corridors was blood-curling, to say the least, and many jumped out of their skins. It was the inhuman type of wail that made one think of a banshee and even necromancers were smart enough to fear that particular sound. Indeed, it contained such fury and suffering that all knew that this day will be Hell to them. And Hell was a mild way to put it. The sole person who did not seem too shocked was the guard standing at the Pope's door. He was shell-shocked too, though for another reason entirely. Come to think of it, it was strange that a woman like Jezebel could make it this high up in the hierarchy and thus, many were those wondering about the reason behind her ascension. But now the veil was lifted – at last! Oh, to imagine their face when he will tell them – the so-called 'Ruler's chick' was in fact a man. And apparently someone who could take down Pope Gamiging himself. The guard shook his head and swallowed hard. It was impossible! Still, he did not move from his spot, since he did not trust his feet anymore. Leaning against the stone wall, he breathed in as deeply as he could and tried to calm down.

Little did he know that it was exactly what Gamigin was doing behind the closed doors. To anyone entering the room, it would have been an awkward sight to behold. The great ruler of Necromancers was lying down on his bed – sprawled on it, actually – panting heavily, eyes tightly shut as if to ward off the pain. He was clutching the arm of his tormentor so hard that it may have broken her bones hadn't she been used to that treatment. Smiling gently, she sit on the bed next to him, placing her free hand on his forehead, whispering comforting words to her superior. She felt sorry for having to hurt him but a larger part of her enjoyed it quite thoroughly. Getting back at a man like Gamigin was highly pleasurable and proved to be rather addictive on the long run. Though the best part would be when he would have to take his clothes off... It may be even more painful to him, poor thing.

"You're in, just breathe now."

The pope could not help but groan at the statement, muttering something about subordinates talking dirty when they should just shut up. Opening his eyes, he merely glared at her, wondering how she would react if he just avenge his -shredded- pride. But again, he would not do it so there was no point. Her antics took too long and now he was late. He started to rise before a crushing pain somewhere near his lower lower abdomen reminded him that it was NOT a good idea and that he did not want that. Sighing, he thus leaned back and proceeded to roll to the side of the bed. He knew she was mocking him. Enthralled in his plans regarding her bloody demise, he missed the border of the mattress and ended up in a most undignified heap on the floor.

"You don't seem to need my services anymore my Lord. I shall check on the troops now." And with that, she literally sauntered toward the door, almost slamming it into the face of a very red-faced guard. He stared at her, she stared at him – and burst out laughing. That man was transparent and she could not help but laugh like a certain foppish scientist at the thought. She was not about to tell him the truth though... She went away, a spring in her steps, the curses from her Lord following suit.

And here the great, the mighty, the terrific Pope Gamigin started his war: face on the floor, behind in the air and a pained look plastered on his features. Really, the life of a High Ruler of Necromancers was NOT an easy job – and he sometimes wished someone had warned him about evil generals. He really should reconsider his career choice – and quick!

Possible add-up.

Not to mention his legs and other parts feeling like they were forced into some chastity-leggings. That is, an ankle-long version of the infamous belt – and a much tighter version.

Still, the officers knew better than to question their 'Master' for his late arrival and no one said anything before they arrived on the battlefield. He felt slightly better as he now could walk without looking like an arthritic penguin and he let his men loose on the unwitting humans standing on the other side of the field. Someone stopped at his left, a few pace ahead. "You know... I cannot wait to make you scream again..." And with that, the necromancer left, throwing himself in the midst of slaughter.

He swore to whatever higher being – aside from him – existing in that world that the first human unfortunate enough to cross his path now will pay. Dearly. A smile crept on his features as he started to plan the Hardland leaders' 'sweet' demise.

* * *

Pants are kinkay...

A/N: I can't tell you just how does he manage to think when wearing those stuff... I just had a random thought of Gamigin's lower body being the bridge of Kazad Dum and the pants, some nasty thing like a Balrog trying to munch on it... I should draw that stuff...

THOU SHALL NOT PASS, PANTS O' DOOM! **/exits/**


	6. Haro on the Arrows!

Wow, long time no see... And now, it's snowing... and I managed to crash the car in a wall... go me! Well, after being told that I should have posted it already... Here is another 'pants' story... this time, featuring our dear 76-years-old sau- I mean Sandwich...

Author: Tristana

Title: Arrow on Lady Gaga

Disclaimer: I own nothing and since we don't get to know Sammich 'in private', I am not sure whether or not he's in character. Be warned, this is AU! So no telling they have no TV - thought I suspect St Germant has one... for the peeping owl.

* * *

Count Sandwich was lying on the counch in a most dignified manner - no, he was not strawled on the plushy cushions like a regular couch potato. And no, he was definitely not shoving pop-corn in his face like a kid in a cinema. No, he was definitely not behaving like some uncouth street urchin. He was just being his normal self away from the world, in a place where no one would see him. He knew that Ruthberg was away to do whatever he did in his free time and Dashwood was probably out with his sweetheart. The sheer thought almost made him spit out his junkfood. How dare this little punk go around and have fun while he was alone in that goddam house quite ? Still, it was not to say that he was not happy about those development. He was in fact pretty happy about it since it gave him plenty of time to watch TV and catch up on the latest fashion shows he could not watch because he was too occupied disciplining one or the other. Really, did those boys know just how tough it was for him to educate them if they were always going about whatever occupied them without a care for himself? At his age, it was a miracle he was not dead from all the stress. He switched the channel to find MTV. He was not that fond of the music videos that were broadcasted: not enough naked men, nor blood for his own liking. To each his own... made he should convince the kids to watch Quills again... Just a thought. Still... Then the announcer went into a frenzy, talking about Lady Gaga's last performance - going about in a meat dress. And truthfully, he was pretty impressed by the girl's guts, so to speak. It was quite a sight and he did not see why people complained about the message and waste: those animals were dead to begin with. Well... He heard the door open and two set of feet padding toward the kitchen. Ruthberg was picked up by Dashwood apparently and both were talking quietly. His eyes returned to the screen, finding out that they'd broadcast Lady Gaga last video, 'Alejandro' - not his favourite song... after watching the 'Teeth' video on Youtube, he thought that no Lady Gaga video would ever make him throb with something better left unsaid. Still, he watched and true enough, he quite liked it - she reminded him of himself - platinum hair, red lips and nails - and the commanding attitude. He barely heard Ruthberg coming closer and that moment... it happened. If the half-naked men in high heels were a sight to behold, what he saw next had him jumping from the couch like a Dashwood on whose chair a needle had been stuck.

"WHAT IS THAT DEVILRY?" Such was the scream that startled both his comrades and about half the block. Ruth uncovered his ears barely in time to go and seize the man as he was launching himself at the expensive plasma screen. No, he was not doing something as childish as throwing a tantrum. He was beyond pissed, which was a most manly attitude, truly.

"That's Lady Gaga, you can't see or something?" Dashwood came out of the kitchen, staring in disbelief at the man trying to wrestle his way from Ruth's vice-like grip to the TV, probably to smash it to pieces if the murderous look on his face was anything to come by.

"I don't care who that skinny assed bitch is! She stole my pants!" With a scream of enraged outrage, the Count broke free of Ruth's hold and tackled the TV to the ground much like a rugbyman would. Never mind that a rugbyman is somewhat taller and four times as heavy as the Count... And that'd make a pretty small one. But again, wrath was giving him the strength his -skinny- muscles lacked and he tore apart the innocent device which only fault was not to break down on its own when the pants of discord appeared. Heaving among the debris of the ex-screen, he was catching his breath while Dashwood and Ruthberg just stared. Rather dumbfounded to say the least.

"Not pants... panties."

"That's semantics, who cares?"

"You should. And her _panties_ were _white_."

"I am not a child Agathion so either you explain yourself or I might use the remmant of that devilish machine for purposes better not to be named in public." Oh oh, Skinny was pissed...

"What he means is that there is no way for you to get so upset... You had them first." Ruthberg was speaking so softly that it was almost hard to hear him and anyone who was not Sandwich would have known the young man was making fun of him.

"So I should let that outrage pass?"

"You said it yourself, you are not a child." _So stop acting like one. _

For a moment, the Count kept silent and needless to say that both young men found it scary. Thinking sausages ARE creepy after all and no one knows what they'd come up with. Still, they did not move until Sandwich started to smile. And then, it was far too late to run.

Indeed, Count Sandwich was patting himself on the back for finding such an awesome idea. As the sign on his room's door proclaimed, if 'the awesomeness of his awesomenity is so awesomely awesome', it was not for nothing. Really, this had to be the best idea he ever had since he decided to go blonde. Not that anyone knew about that particular element. He took painstaking efforts to look like a natural blonde and sometimes, he had wanted to go back to his original hair colour. But the roots got sooooooooo ugly that he had to go on with the dye. Another great idea had been to put on red lipstick, nail polish and arrowed ... He indeed go that look _before_ Lady Gaga! His honour was safe and sound, he would not have to go through the whole 'going to the US, chasing the popstar down and kill her in a way she already prefigured in her Paparazzi video. His smile grew larger and what he thought was an awesome grin of doom came out as creepy slasher grin of doom for all to see. Truly, everything was going according to plan. He briefly turned around and rushed to his closet – the one nobody dared to peer into and the one he should never have come out of.

"Boys, go to the bedroom and strip." He just had time to grab what he wanted and went out, to find said boys staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

"I said, go to the bedroom and strip." He spoke slowly, so that both nitwits would get it straight but it was no use.

"Unlike what you may believe, we are not deaf." Dashwood was simply staring at the Count - and that was the kind of stare that screamed the most complete incomprehension... Or has the Count officially gone nut?

"Why should we do that?" Ruthberg... always the clever one, the one asking questions. Pinching his nose with his thumb and index finger, the Count took on a long suffering look.

"Because, my dear boys, we are going to play... and shoot a concurrent video to Lady Gaga's to post on Youtube and achieve worldwide notoriety." He was now on the couch, standing much like the 'Liberty leading the people', except that he was not holding a flag but a pair of black patent leather stilettos. And fishnets. It all went fast, too fast for him to process what happened. He saw them gulp in a rather unladylike fashion and the next thing Sandwich knew what that the door was slamming shut, ringing through the now empty flat. Shaking his head against the idiocy and cultural stupidity of youths, the Count strolled back to his room, turning the HiFi on so that Lady Gaga's 'The Fame Monster' was playing – blasting. Turning on the camera he had purchased in prevision for such a situation, he went on with his plan. If those boys were stupid enough not to want to be known and act as a concurrent to Lady Gaga, so be it.

Happy with what he did, he signed up on youtube: 'CountSandwich', password: Saus4ge76 and posted the video that will now be the centre of a worldwide buzz. He saw it already, thanked by the Queen and acclaimed by all, money filling his accounts and fame knocking at his door in the form of hundreds of naked men. Proud with his deed, he squeed in a most un-aristocratic manner, which he decided to forgive himself for that outburst as he saw the views go through the roof.

On the other side of the city, Dashwood and Ruthberg were at Paracelsus, having a well-deserved tea after barely escaping the Count's polished clutches.

"This sounds serious though, are you sure he would carry on with that plan?"

"He's nutter! Should've seen him!" Dashwood spoke in the high pitched voice of someone who was still in a state of shock while Ruthberg nodded vigorously. Suddenly, a loud scream of laughter echoed in the apartment, followed by a stumbling hairdresser who was clutching his ribs as if they'd fall off. Calming down, he was still shaking with the remnants of this outburst and brought the laptop to the kitchen without saying a word. Only when he had laid it on the table did he speak.

"You were wondering about the Count right? Well, here you go!" He stepped back to let the other three look at the screen as the video ran. At 1:20 minutes, Dashwood was dead to the world, fainting in his chair, while Ruthberg and Paracelsus still watched. Only to burst out laughing helplessly a few seconds later.

"This is... this is... oh. My. Days! How could he come up with that?" At that, Dashwood seemed to regain consciousness and seeing the screen, stared. He could not decide if it was funny or creepy.

"It's Sandwich, you know..." was all he could get out. Croak out.

"Still... oh wait, there's a comment!" Paracelsus read it then facepalmed. Looking back at Bruno, he just glared. "You HAD to say that, right?"

"It was so obvious I could not stay silent! It is such an horror that everyone should be warned! Him more than anyone. Honestly, I had never seen such a poor job in my line of work for ages... since Francis' 'accident'." With that, the hairdresser winked at Dashwood who went rather red in the face, matching his hair.

Oblivious to them, Sandwich was checking his first comment ever on Youtube with the eagerness of a child on Christmas day. He was giddy and knew already what it would say: 'You are so much better than me. -Lady Gaga.'

Opening the message, it took him a while to process what it said before he went yet again in a 'technological-devices-are-evil-and-must-be-destroyed' rampage. The scream he let out was enough to wake up the whole city of Kamazene that was not awake yet.

"Do you think he saw it?" Three pair of eyes just stared at Bruno, who smiled sweetly. "Well, I always wanted to say that."

And then, they left the computer as they went out to eat. On the screen, the Youtube page:

ScissorMaster said:

Never thought you'd be still that supple for your age... LMAO.

BUT! Get a new dye job, it hurts my artistic sensibility to see that.

* * *

I know, it was short... But I could not help myself and everytime I see the video from Lady Gaga, I think about another tiny blonde... Because Sammich is all tiny... (How do you think he fits in those pants? Or... OMG, SAMMICH IS A WOMAN!

Hum... kidding. I hope you enjoyed your read and that it was cracky enough for you. I take suggestions as to other ficcies - I need to annoy Mikhail (might have an idea but I don't know how it'll end), Georik... and Bruno too. And Paracelsus. Hehehe.

Also... 'Arrow on Lady Gaga' is derived from a french expression: 'crier haro sur' which basically means to put the blame on someone or to point at their mistakes. Or simply to accuse them...


	7. Mephisto and the Killer Jam

Ahah! Long time no see, my dear readers... if you are still around.  
Today, we are going to talk about food, demons and just how much Meffie fails as a cook.

I apologize for my tardiness (and retardness) at not posting anything earlier but I guess I just did not have any ideas as to what to write first. This came up when chatting with A Libertine So Grim... we were talking about random things when she said: 'Wtf is wrong in sweet Hell?' And I replied 'Someone used Tabasco instead of syrup'... ensued a mention of Lucifer and Meffie and voilà.

I hope you won't resent me too much for this and for its shortness. I promise I'll try to make something longer and better next tim- wait, you pervs, what you think I am talking about? Don't deny it, I saw you! /flails

* * *

How did Mephistopheles' relationship with Lucifer deteriorated into being called 'Cold War II'?

It was a normal day - or evening - in Hell. Not that anyone would be able to say what time it was exactly - the lack of sunlight being evident enough not to ask why. Anyway, it did not mean that demons did not have any notions of time. It has strictly nothing to do with this story, really. But it was so our readers won't wonder how do demons know when to have breakfast.

Indeed, demons have breakfast. And now, it did not exclusively consist of roasted babies, slices of liver fried in champagn, topped with virgin's blood. Though a higher demon would usually enjoy his share of human soul, if pure and filthy enough. It did not mean that Lucifer had a fridge. He just sent his slav- servant to get him what he wanted for breakfast. Today was strawberry jam, coffee (super-duper blacker than black, because yeah, he's epic like that) and toasts.

Sitting at the huge table for his food to arrive, Lucifer was tapping his claw- nails on the polished wood, trying to follow a tune he only half remembered but that oddly sounded like some kid's song normally sung by humans. The fact was, Mephistopheles was late. And it was untolerable! He was exactly 24 seconds late it was enough to tick him off. You see, our Lord in Hell is blessed with a sixth sense akin to a Swiss clock and therefore knows precisely about his servant's lateness. Though blessed may be a subjective way of putting it, as said servant rather liberally cursed it as he rushed down the labyrinth-like alleyways. No, he did not run. Demons never run. They are too dignified to run - and their robes made it hard for them to run anyway, unless they decided to float - but floating was forbidden after a certain demon smashed into his lord for the umpteenth time. One should not be found encouraging gropping that would go against hierarchical common sense.

Not that demons were known for having any. Common sense, that is.

Lucifer was thus still waiting for his jam, when Mephisto nothing short of ran into the room, after a hasty knock. Normally, he would scold the demon for his poor manners but instead, he settled for just remarking on his tardiness.

"I know that you are too considerate to let me get a burnt tongue from the coffee, but now, it's not like I would appreciate a frozen one instead." His chilly tone was enough to make Mephisto think that his tongue is already frozen. Well, probably because living in Cocytus was not the best way to keep coffee warmth.

"Well, next time go and have a tea with the heretics, it'll be just hot enough," was all the other demon muttered.

"What was it, Mephisto?" And with that, an elegant eyebrow rose on an equally elegant brow, showing with elegance just how damn pissed he was.

"Nothing, my Lord."

With that, he left the room. Once he was outside, he just let his thoughts roam and decided that cursing his Master was certainly the least he could do. 'May you choke on that coffee and get a burn from that stupid jam!' It was only when he got back to the kitchen-like room to re-arrange the pots that he realized just how true this last statement would prove to be.

Meanwhile, Lucifer was happily - as happily as the Master of Hell could without sounding like he is on a high - so yes, he was happily digging in his breakfast, liberally putting jam on his toasts - to the point that those could be called: jam with toasts and not toasts with jam. Now, that's repetitive. Said strawberry goodness did not quite smell like it usually did and it was a redder. Not that Lucifer thought anything about it as he just bit down on his toast.

And for a moment, nothing happened. An angel passed, then another, and then they realized they were in Hell and quickly left in terror at the sight of the otherwise fearsome leader of Hell.

Maybe it was because his face went from deathly white to tomato red... Like, ketchup red. A very hot ketchup.

Like bird peppers.

White. Red.

And then Hell broke loose.

Literally.

A scream so loud it could be heard up to the highest levels of Purgatory - Heaven was protected by soundproof gates, arguably because of neighbour snoring - and scared the death out of banshees echoed throughout Hell. Foundations creaked and Charon felt once more he should definitely resign from his job. How do you expect to keep people in Hell if everytime you manage to get a bit of quiet you get demons shattering your ears with mindless shouting? Sighing, the Ferryman went back to his work, though really, he should talk to their Lord about his sad habit of scream randomly at everyone. Just to remind him that if there was a door before entering Cocytus, it was for a reason and that a door could, should, be shut. Damn it.

Anyone invisible standing nearby would have rushed to know what made Lucifer wail like a banshee in heat, expecting to see Mephistopheles lying in a puddle of blood with a berserking Lucifer screaming profanities. But clearly, they did not expect this: the oh-so awesome-terrifying-deadly-crazy-but-insanely-hot Lord of Hell was currently rolling on the floor, clutching his face and throat with both hands, making sounds people normally make when they don't know how to breath without feeling some tremendous pain. Worse, tears streaked the normally alabaster face and mascara was all over the place. (Apparently, he forgot to buy the waterproof one, arguably to save money.)

He could not breath, let alone speak, but something was clear. Lucifer was about as pissed as Cerberus when denied his hourly meal of fresh souls. That is, mightily pissed. Dignity be damned, Lucifer currently wanted nothing more than to murder very slowly and painfully his treacherous, bastardly, subordinate.

Meanwhile, Mephisto was holed up in a cupboard in the kitchen, trembling from horns to toes like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. In his hand, a pot of what would appear to be strawberry jam. A jar labelled as 'red pepper birds chutney'...

Needless to say that Mephisto was henceforth banned from the kitchen and was condemned to taste Lucifer's food before the Mighty Lord of Hell would even consider eating.

And thus was born the legend of peppers as a terrifying, anti-demons mass-destruction weapon.

* * *

I plan on creating a fund in order to pay Meffie new glasses. What do you think?


End file.
